The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

At the end of a short corridor Zhusai opened a door and stepped inside. Rugs were set around the room, and blankets had been spread upon the floor. There were no chairs, nor ornaments. ‘This is your room,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Zhusai. Tell me, have you ever been into the desert?’

‘No, Lord.’

‘Does the prospect of our journey cause you concern? We will be travelling through hostile lands and there will be many dangers.’

‘There is only one danger I fear, Lord,’ she said.

‘And that is?’ As he asked the question he saw a gleam appear in her eyes, and a tightening of the muscles of her face. In that moment the quiescent, agreeable Chiatze girl-child disappeared, replaced by a hard-eyed woman. Then, just as suddenly, the girl-mask fell back into place.

‘It is best not to speak of fears, Lord. For fear is akin to magic. Good night. Sleep well.’

The door closed behind her.

Sieben’s laughter was rich, the sound filling the room, and the Drenai ambassador reddened. ‘I think you’ll find that this is no subject for humour,’ he said coldly. ‘We are talking here about international diplomacy, and the whims of individuals have no place in it.’ The poet sat back and studied the ambassador’s thin face. His steel-coloured hair was carefully combed and delicately perfumed, his clothes immaculate – and very costly. Majon wore a white woollen cloak, and a blue silk tunic edged with gold. The ambassador’s fingers toyed with his crimson neck scarf and the ceremonial brooch – a silver horse rearing – that denoted his rank. The man was angry, and allowing it to show. This, Sieben decided, was a calculated insult. Diplomats were masters of oily charm, their expressions endlessly amiable when dealing with superiors. ‘Do you disagree?’ asked Majon.

‘I rarely disagree with politicians,’ Sieben told him. ‘It seems to me that the worst of you could convince me that a horse turd tastes like a honey-cake. And the best would leave me believing that I alone in all the world had failed to enjoy its flavour.’

‘That is a highly insulting remark,’ snapped Majon.

‘I do apologize, ambassador. It was meant as a compliment.’

‘Will you seek to convince him – or not? This matter is of the highest importance. I swear, by the memory of Missael, that we could be talking of war!’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt that, ambassador. I saw the God-King, remember?’ Majon’s eyes widened and he swiftly raised his hand to his mouth, holding a finger to his lips in warning. Sieben merely grinned. ‘An inspired leader,’ he said, with a wink. ‘Any ruler who would sack a politician and raise his pet cat to ministerial rank has my support.’

Majon rose from his chair and walked to the door, opening it and peering out into the corridor. Swinging back into the room he stood before the poet. ‘It is not wise to mock any ruler – most especially when in the capital city of such a man. The peoples of the Drenai and the Gothir are at peace. Long may it remain so.’

‘Yet in order to ensure that peace,’ said Sieben, his smile fading, ‘Druss must lose against Klay?’

‘Put simply, that is indeed the situation. It would not be . . . appropriate . . . for Druss to win.’

‘I see. You have little faith, then, in the God-King’s prophecy?’

Majon poured himself a goblet of wine and sipped it before answering. ‘It is not a question of faith, Sieben; it is simply politics. The God-King makes a prophecy at this time every year. They come true. There are those who believe that, since his prophecies generally concern the actions of men, the men themselves ensure their accuracy. Others simply accept that their ruler is divine. However, in this instance the point is academic. He has predicted that Klay will take the gold. If Druss were to win it would be seen as an insult to the God-King, and interpreted as a Drenai plot to destabilize the administration. The consequences of such an action could be disastrous.’

‘I suppose he could put his cat in charge of the army and attack Dros Delnoch. A terrifying prospect!’